Supergirl
by SVUFanatic611
Summary: [one-shot] Olivia muses on her life and a conversation she had with a young witness.


Title: _Supergirl _

Author: SVUFanatic611

Rating: PG

A/n: One shot fic. Inspiration came from the song, _Supergirl_, sung by Krystal Harris

Disclaimer: SVU and its associated characters are not mine and I don't have any rights to the lyrics.

-

_I'm supergirl  
And I'm here  
To save the world  
But I wanna know  
Who's gonna save me  
I'm supergirl  
And I'm here to  
Save the world  
And I wanna know  
Why I feel so alone_

_-_

_Olivia Benson's POV_

I, Olivia Benson, am known to so many people as a smart, competent, tough, yet compassionate cop. It's something I take pride in. It's one of the only things I _can_ be proud of.

I didn't have the easiest childhood. It was filled with my mother's drunken rages and I constantly thought about who my real father was – not that he would ever be much of one. Growing up, I always felt so distant from everyone else. I didn't have a lot of friends and many of my teachers thought I was emotionally unstable and, even though they never pointed it out to me, I knew they thought that I would never amount to anything because of all the wrong they knew existed in my life.

What would they think of me now? Working with perverts, rapists, violence, and the pure scum of the city, day in and day out. Surely they would think that they were right; that I haven't amounted to much. They would think I'm crazy.

Maybe I am. I mean, maybe you _have_ to be some sort of crazy to work in this place for the amount of time I have.

But this job is one of the only things I can be proud of. Maybe it's not one of the bragging-type jobs, but it's mine. It's one of the only things I know will always exist. I can depend on this job; it'll never change. Perverts and rapists will never go away and, as long as that's true, this job will never die.

I need this job almost as much as it needs me, a person just crazy enough to work it.

Don't get me wrong. I may love this job, but most times, the love doesn't make it easier. Sometimes, I can't be that strong cop everyone expects me to be; I can't carry the world on my shoulders, and sometimes, I can't be the one who doesn't fear and never cries. As hard as it may be for people to believe, I do have the ability to be a person who's weak, who can't carry a single burden, who gets scared, and who cries.

Maybe that's the one thing I don't like about this job – besides the live victims and the emotional baggage it carries along with it. I don't like the fact that I can't be a diverse person. That I have to keep the cool-cop persona attached to my name all the time. That, in order to be that opposite person, I have to walk away from it all for a moment…most times to the crib or the roof.

It's where I am now.

I'm up here now, trying to figure my life out, like the dim light of the stars, the bright gleam of the city lights, and the gentle whisper of the wind are going to reveal the answer to me. I don't know why this sudden questioning of my life has erupted. Maybe it was this last case…and the victims it led me to.

Elliot and I had been called to the scene of a rape and attempted homicide. The vic was a thirty-four-year-old Caucasian female, Grace Jones. She was tied to her bed, raped, beaten, and left for dead with a knife incision streaked across her abdomen. Worst part was, that wasn't the worst part. See, Grace's seven-year-old daughter, Ruthie, saw the entire thing. And I had been called in to interview our only conscious witness.

Needless to say that she wasn't too trusting. Seeing her mom experience such violence and almost die at such a young age, I'm not sure I would've trusted anyone either…even a cop.

It took me a lot of sessions, a lot of talking, and a lot of coloring to get her to open up. I just never thought that one of her pictures would be the thing that sent me up here. I can remember the entire conversation we had this afternoon.

"What's that you're drawing, Ruthie?" I asked her as she picked up the red crayon. It looked like a girl with a cape, flying over some building. But I couldn't be sure.

"It's you," she said simply, picking up the green one.

"Me?" I asked with a smile. "Why are you drawing me?"

She looked up at me with huge, hazel eyes and said, "Because when I ask my mommy what I should draw, she always says to draw things that I like. I like you." Then she continued to bring a building to life with the green crayon.

I didn't care how old she was, it was probably the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me. "Well, I like you, too," I responded, coloring in the book that she had picked out for me.

She smiled and went back to her drawing, keeping the conversation to a minimum.

"Well, what am I doing in that picture?" I asked.

"You're flying," she said, again simply, not elaborating.

I smiled at her and gave a puzzling look. "Really? Why am I flying?"

"Because you have a cape."

"Well, why do I have a cape?"

She seemed to get annoyed with all my questions, but I had to ask. We were getting farther than any other time we spent together. "Because all superheroes have capes, Silly," she answered, thinking I was a complete idiot, but the fact that she thought I was a superhero kind of soaked up all the shock.

"You think I'm a superhero?" I asked her to keep the conversation alive.

"Duh," she said, picking up the blue crayon. "You said that you would put the man that hurt Mommy in jail and you told me and Mommy that everything's going to be okay. You're Supergirl. That's why you have an S and a G on your cape. See?" she ended, pointing to the letters on the drawn cape.

Emotions were lurking in my throat and I swallowed them to answer her. "Yeah, Sweetheart, I see them," I managed to get out. She picked up another crayon and went to her drawing.

I couldn't believe it. I mean, I've had many people, mostly victims and victims' families, thank me for working on their case, but this one took the cake. Did she really think I was a real life superhero? Why would she think that? I'm no hero. I'm far from it. Superheroes don't cry. They don't have breakdowns and have to walk away from their job to clear their heads. They don't have screwed up childhoods and they know what their life means.

I can remember the rest of the conversation we had.

"Olivia?" she asked in a timid voice. "'Member when you said that I could tell you what I saw happen to Mommy when I was ready?"

I looked up from my coloring book and found those hazel eyes staring at me. "Yeah, Sweetheart, I remember."

"I think I wanna tell you now."

Maybe she thought I was a superhero because she could tell me her story. Maybe she thought I was a superhero because she never saw me scared. Maybe she thought so because she loved my shiny badge. I don't think I'll ever really know.

The sound of Elliot's footsteps pulls me out of all my thoughts. Him putting his coat around my shoulders causes me to turn around.

"Liv, it's freezing out here. Come on, let's go get some coffee."

I know he's trying to so hard to get me to open up, but he knows I won't…mostly because even _I_ don't know what the hell's going through my head.

"No, I'm fine, El. Thanks anyway."

"Sure. Listen, Ruthie wants to go back to the hospital to spend the night with Grace. You're the only one she'll let ride with her and she won't go without you."

I look at him and nod, tossing the jacket back at him. "Make sure the squad car's ready and I'll be down there in two minutes."

He nods, making an exit and I know he's worried about me, but I turn out to the city again, still hoping its lights will unscramble and reveal the answer to life to me.

But I know it won't. I know that in two minutes, I have to slip into my tough and fearless, but compassionate outer layer. I know that, although that outer layer is a part of me, it's not the only part. I still have the part that cries, fears, and gets weak. I take out the picture that Ruthie had just drawn and stare at it, running my fingers over the texture of the crayons.

I'm not Supergirl. But I'm okay with that.

-  
A/n – well, this one had been playing in my head for quite awhile now…ever since October, and I finally got the gumption to write it down. I don't know if it's much of a one-shot, but, like _Setting My Sights_, it's something I gotta get written down to work through my writer's block. The "soccer sequel" to _Setting My Sights_ will be up soon. I've got half of it written. I'll be posting it soon.

Until next post, adios! –Jessica


End file.
